


The Soot Gremlin and the Bastard Prince

by Batsutousai



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beating, Child Abuse, Fairy Tale Elements, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 04:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14887382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsutousai/pseuds/Batsutousai
Summary: Harry is forced to live as a servant to his unpleasant uncle and aunt, while Tom is a bastard who's only in line for the throne because there's no one else. When the king decides to throw a ball, can the two find their freedom in each other?





	The Soot Gremlin and the Bastard Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my putting on the Brandy _Cinderella_ because I couldn't sleep and didn't have the energy for anything else. I may or may not regret this.
> 
> There was a minor bit of uncertainty about who Harry's fairy godparent would be. Hopefully everyone likes who I picked.
> 
> Many thanks to Shara and my sister, who beta'd for me and weren't too ridiculously excited about me writing HP again. XP
> 
>  
> 
> Cross-posted to [Dreamwidth](https://batsutousai.dreamwidth.org/392655.html) and [LiveJournal](https://batsutousai.livejournal.com/394036.html).  
> A cover can be found [here on deviantArt](https://www.deviantart.com/batsutousai/art/The-Soot-Gremlin-the-Bastard-Prince-Fic-Cover-756496310).

When Harry was one year old, his father died in the wars. His mother, heartbroken but strong, raised Harry by herself until he was nearly six, when illness took her as well. The few memories that stayed with him were of her kind, loving smile, and so doing his best to be kind and always smile, even when it hurt, were things he did in her memory.

Harry's only relatives were his cold-hearted Aunt Petunia, and his greedy Uncle Vernon, who together had one son who howled and fussed about anything and everything under the sun. They'd no interest in taking in Harry, but it looked well to those who knew his unfortunate circumstances – which was very shortly everyone within a league – and so they did.

Whilst Dudley, Harry's cousin, was raised in sunshine and with great deals of free time to do whatever he should so please, Harry was gifted a tiny room just off the kitchen to sleep in, and was expected to assist the servants with their chores. (The one time he'd found the courage to ask why this was so, he was beat and ordered never to ask questions, and so he never again did.)

There were many nights, especially in the winter, when his little kitchen room got too cold for him to sleep, so Harry would sleep in front of the kitchen hearth, and wake with soot in his untameable hair and all over his face, which was already darker than the rest of his family. His cousin started to call him 'Hairy Soot-face', which lasted only so long as it took one of his slightly more clever friends to dub him, instead, 'Hairy Sootlin', claiming he was so small and dirty, he must be a sort of gremlin, and thus the name stuck.

The winter of Harry's thirteenth year, one of Vernon's business ventures fell through, leaving the family in a brief hardship. All of the servants were let go, which left Harry with far too many chores, and resulted in a great deal of howling and carrying on from Dudley when his meals came just the slightest bit cold.

Harry suffered his uncle's wrath quite a few times that winter, and it was rare he would make it to his cold bed to sleep, though that might well have saved him some weeks of fever from the infection that set into the cuts on his back before the end of the season.

Vernon found the money to hire on one servant, a man named Remus, and Harry did what he could whilst ill, despite the best efforts of Remus to keep him abed, for Harry would wish his uncle's wrath on no one else. By the time summer warmed the town, bringing with it successful ventures and money enough to hire plenty of servants, Harry and Remus had become something like friends.

The years passed, as they do, and in the spring preceding Harry's seventeenth birthday – the very birthday that young men and women were expected to find an apprenticeship (or marriage, for those too well off to dirty their hands with common work), and Harry intended to strike out on his own at last – Vernon again lost too much of his money on a poorly considered venture, and fired all of the servants.

Remus did his best to stay – he no more wished Vernon's wrath on Harry, than Harry would let it fall on any of the family's servants – even offering to remain on for pennies, but Vernon wouldn't have it. And so it again fell to Harry to keep the house and serve the needs and wishes of his family.

He managed far better – he was older and a little wiser, though not really any larger or stronger, than he'd been at thirteen – though it remained exhausting work.

One beautiful afternoon, whilst dragging his feet about finishing the shopping, there happened to be a proclamation given in the town square: His Royal Majesty, King Marvolo, was throwing a ball in the hopes of finding matches for his son, Prince Morfin, and his grandson, Prince Thomas. All unmarried or widowed women of the kingdom were invited. So, too, were all widowed or unmarried men, for there would be a great many ladies to dance with, and only two princes.

Harry brought the news home, and of course Vernon and Petunia jumped for joy at the thought that their son might find a beneficial match at the ball. Dudley would, of course, require fine new clothing, and Petunia and Vernon would need some new things, as well.

"Might I go?" Harry asked, while his aunt wrote down the specifics of what the family would need, for Harry to run to the tailor the family preferred.

Both his aunt and uncle turned to him with disbelieving eyes.

"At no expense, I can wear some of Dudley's old things!" Harry hurried to say.

His aunt smiled, then, though it was not a kind one. "A _soot gremlin_ go to a _royal function_? Whatever would be the point? You won't find a wife there."

Harry shrugged and ducked his head, embarrassed and hating himself for asking. "Sorry," he whispered.

"As you should be," Vernon snarled in that tone that usually preceded a beating.

Petunia stopped him, though, reminding him that Harry needed to run their order to the tailor. And Harry, despite himself, was grateful to her.

In truth, Harry had no interest in using the ball to find a wife. He'd already discovered that he had no liking for maidens, though he was far too clever to let anyone notice him eyeing the boys. (Never his cousin, mind; he knew far too well how cruel and unpleasant Dudley was, though he seemed to think himself charming enough.)

No, Harry had hoped to find a master to apprentice under, or perhaps follow his father's steps and join the army; he needed somewhere to run to, come his birthday, or he wouldn't get far, and he knew it.

However, because he had asked, Vernon knew to keep an eye on him, and Harry didn't have the time to make himself anything to wear between chores. As if to make absolutely certain, Vernon beat him the night of the ball, leaving Harry bleeding in front of the fireplace whilst the family stepped out in their brand new finery. And, as the sound of the horses and the cart faded, so, too, did Harry's dreams of freedom.

They weren't gone long, when a gentle hand brushed Harry's hair out of his face. "Little one, what cruelties you've suffered," an airy voice said.

Harry twisted to see, hissing as the welts on his back pulled, and found a young woman possessed of an ethereal sort of beauty kneeling behind him. She was smiling, though it was sad, and Harry felt tears spring to his eyes for reasons he couldn't begin to guess.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"I'm– Hm," she replied, looking up towards the far wall. "That's a bit complicated, really. I suppose I'm your stand-in fairy godmother."

"...oh," Harry said, though he couldn't begin to guess what she meant; he wasn't in the habit of asking questions of people, even clarifying ones.

The woman turned bright blue eyes back down to look at him. "Oh, that's not very clear, is it? You see, all persons have a fairy godparent assigned to them at birth. Most people never meet their fairy godparent, but if one has been very, very good and is also very much in need, the fairy godparent is there to help them with a miracle."

"Oh," Harry said again, understanding a little bit better.

"Unfortunately, your fairy godfather did something a little bit daft and is currently serving time in fairy godparent time out. He can be very charming when he wants to, though, and I'm afraid I let him talk me into coming in his place." Her smile, which had been a little distant but clearly amused, turned sad as she focussed back on Harry. "I do wish he'd convinced me a bit sooner. This was never the life meant for you, Harry."

It had been a very long time since Harry had heard anyone use his real name, for even Remus had known him as Sootlin, and he said again, "Oh," and then started to cry.

His stand-in fairy godmother sat with him through it without a word of complaint nor any attempts to shush him, and it was the most kindness Harry could remember receiving...pretty much ever, though Remus and most of the servants, when they had any, had certainly shown him a share of kindness, when they had been able. But they had not always been able, and Harry had never been good at recognising kindness when it was given to him, in truth.

Only when Harry's tears had dried up, did his stand-in fairy godmother say, "Should you like to go to the ball?"

Harry pondered that for a long moment. His back hurt terribly, and he was tired from his long cry. But, too, it still held true that the ball was the best place for him to meet someone who might take him on as an apprentice, or whoever was in charge of the army to sign himself up. "I can't go like this," he finally said, because that was the truth.

"Oh, I think I have a miracle that will sort that out just fine. And one to get you there on time."

"Oh. Then, yes. Please."

His stand-in fairy godmother coughed as she stood. "I do have one itty, bitty favour, though."

"Yes?" Harry asked, not even feeling a little bit cross at her asking for something in return.

Her smile, when she looked down at him, was sad. "I've a godchild of my own who you're very likely to meet tonight. He hasn't been very, very good, but I think he could be, if someone only showed him how. I think, together, you can find the freedom and happiness you both seek."

"It's not Dudley or one of his mates, is it?" Harry had to ask, because he very much didn't expect, nor intend, to find any sort of happiness with that lot.

"Not at all. You won't have met before. You'll know him by his smile, which is as false and painful as your own."

Harry's chest hurt, a bit, at that description; he shouldn't have wished such silent suffering on anyone, not even his terrible relatives.

"Now then," said Harry's stand-in fairy godmother, as she held down a hand to him, "Let's get you up, so we might see about your miracle."

Harry opened his mouth to warn her that he wasn't certain he could stand, even as he held up a hand to her, but the moment her hand touched his, light swept over him, and all of his pains vanished. "Oh," he said again.

She laughed, bright and delighted. And, once he was standing, she let him go and did a sort of hop-skip-jump out the kitchen door, which opened for her.

Harry followed and found her twirling in the garden. Her gown, he saw under the bright light of the full moon, sparkled and shimmered as she moved. And, every so often, he would think he saw a mythical creature moving among the folds of fabric.

"I," she informed him whilst spinning, "quite like radishes. Don't you?"

Harry, who had, at times, snuck fruits or vegetables from the garden when his belly felt too empty, was neither for, nor against radishes, though Dudley hated them, so he often ate his leftovers off his plate before washing the lot. So he said, "They're not terrible."

"I find them to be quite magical," she said, right before all of the radishes popped right out of the soil, not a one ripe enough to eat. They were caught up in a shower of sparkles from her dress, dancing along, all in a row, until they reached the road just on the other side of the hedge. There, they spun around and around in a tightening circle until, with a quiet little _pop_ , there stood a quaint little red and white carriage in their place.

An unhappy squeal drew Harry's attention back to his stand-in fairy godmother, and he found that two of the garden mice he sometimes caught nibbling on the garden and one rather large spider had been caught up in the sparkles from her dress. They, like the radishes, danced along and over the hedge, whereupon they eventually turned into two rather handsome horses and one disgruntled coachwoman.

"There's for your transportation," his stand-in fairy godmother said. "Pity you didn't have crows or sommat; I quite like winged horses."

Harry couldn't begin to imagine how such would be taken by the rest of the kingdom, and he quickly shook his head and said, "This is more than sufficient!"

She smiled like she knew what he was really thinking, and Harry swallowed a bit harder than he should like to admit. She didn't call him on it, however. Rather, she said, "Now, for your clothing... Spin a bit for me, there's a dear."

Sparkles from her dress surrounded Harry, and he half expected to be borne over the hedge by them. Instead, they attached themselves to his clothing, which shifted and twisted and lengthened around him, until he was dressed in cream trousers, a fine black tailcoat, and a green double-breasted waistcoat, with a matching cravat. His ragged old shoes, too, had seen an upgrade, as they shone like new leather under the light of the moon.

Harry, who had never had a new thing so long as he could remember, stared down at himself for a long moment, before hugging himself – and the fine new clothing; so much better than anything he might have thrown together from Dudley's castoffs – and looked up at his stand-in fairy godmother with tears in his eyes. " _Thank you_ ," he whispered.

Her smile was kind as she stepped over to him, tugging at a bit of her dress as she did. It came loose with a tearing sound, then she gave it one hard shake, sparkles falling from it in an explosion of light. When Harry could see past the light spots, he found she was holding out a handsome black top hat, which he took in shaking hands. "Now don't you clean up well," she said.

Harry ducked his head, embarrassed, and pulled on the hat, hoping it might help hide a bit how dreadful his hair always looked.

"Ah, one last thing," she said, and Harry looked up in time to see something fly from the window of Petunia and Vernon's room, landing in her palm with a loud _smack_. "This," she said as she held out what turned out to be a golden pocket watch, which was dented slightly on the front cover, just over the head of a rearing lion, "was your father's."

Harry's breath caught and he reached out to take it from her; he'd never had a single thing of his father's, nor had he every really known anything about him, save that he'd died in the war.

His stand-in fairy godmother helped him attach it to his waistcoat – he knew how, in theory, but Dudley had never had one, and he'd never had to help Vernon dress – and then chivvied him to the path out to the road.

"Oh, and Harry," she said as he climbed into the carriage, a note of warning in her voice.

Harry turned back towards her. "Yes'm?"

Her smile was sad. "I'm afraid this miracle can only last until the final stroke of the midnight bell."

Harry pulled out his father's old pocket watch and checked the time. He had just under three hours to get to the palace, find this other boy who could use a miracle, sort out a future for himself, and get back to this wretched house. Or not get back, depending. It should be enough time. He hoped.

"I understand," he said as he slipped his pocket watch away.

"Then go. Find your freedom and hold tight to it with both hands, Harry. There is happiness yet in the world for you."

She exploded into sparkles, and either the noise (though it was relatively quiet, Harry thought) or the lights spooked the mice-turned-horses, for they jumped forward in tandem, throwing Harry sideways into the seat, and they were off.

It took them about twenty minutes to reach the palace, according to his father's watch, and waiting through the line of carriages ate up an uncomfortable amount of Harry's limited time. Still, such was the danger of coming a little late, he supposed. And he should still have plenty enough time to do all he needed to do. He hoped.

He didn't bother with the chamberlain who was announcing people, because he didn't want to be noticed by his family or anyone else who would know he didn't belong there. Instead, he found a servant's entrance — far more comfortable to him after years of helping the servants and taking on their duties when he needed to — and snuck in that way. He was overdressed, but none of the servants seemed to care, beyond one overbearing woman with brilliantly-red hair in the kitchen, who clearly thought he was lost. Which, well, he sort of was, because he might know his way around a kitchen and the back hallways of the manor, but the palace was a different matter entirely.

The overbearing redhead was plenty willing to give him directions to where various craft masters were most likely to gather in hopes of catching a few hopefuls, like Harry himself. She also explained, when he found the courage to ask, that the army didn't have a representative at the ball, but the palace guard did. And while a part of Harry had always been set on being in the army, the palace guard was still serving his country, same as his father had done, and meant a bed away from his relatives and their home, which was the truly important part.

Harry followed the directions as best he was able, but he got a bit turned around when he stopped to help a redheaded boy his age with a door that let out behind a banquet table, and didn't see anyone else around he might ask for new directions. So he picked a direction he thought might be right, and kept on.

It was about the time he was seriously thinking he'd taken a wrong turn, when a male voice called from just ahead, "Who are you, and what are you doing back here?"

Harry swallowed and ducked his head, looking down at his feet the same as he would have done at home, because the other's tone suggested he was used to being obeyed. "I've got lost, sir," he replied, voice low and non-confrontational.

There came the soft thud of someone hopping down from a high seat, then the sharp click of fine shoes on the stone flooring. (Harry's own shoes made a similar sound, and it had given him a share of courage he hadn't known shoes could.) "You're too finely dressed for these halls," the person said, his voice cool and cultured in a way that Harry could only dream of.

Harry chanced a glance up, finding that the person approaching was perhaps a few years older than him, nearly two heads taller (he was short, he knew), painfully handsome, and dressed as finely as Harry himself. "As are you, sir," he replied, his voice just a little too quiet, too meek. Like he was playing dress up in someone else's finery. Which he sort of was.

The older boy raised an eyebrow at him, the action appearing so very practised. "Be that as it may, to where were you heading when you got lost?"

"The, ah, the World Room, sir," Harry replied, giving the name the overbearing woman had used for it.

The older boy blinked, looking perhaps a little startled. "You're here for the masters? I would have thought you here for dancing."

Harry immediately shook his head. "I can't dance. And I've no interest in wo– In, ah, in finding a wife. Sir." He winced at his own blunder, wondering what it was that had made him so nearly reveal one of his darkest secrets.

The older boy didn't move for a moment, something too clever about his eyes, and Harry was just thinking he should escape while he had the chance, when he said, "Shall I teach you how to dance, little lord?"

"I'm not a lord!" Harry heard himself shout, terrified at the very idea of someone believing him so far above his own station. Never mind what his relatives would do should they ever find out, he'd be hanged for playing at being a member of the nobility. "I'm just– I'm not–" He forced himself to breathe, to look up and meet the wide, startled eyes staring at him, and forced out, "I'm common. M-my godmum leant me these."

The older boy blinked, and then he smiled, wide and so very beautiful. But also, Harry realised, likely only because of how often he saw such in the mirror, so very sad. And he wondered if, perhaps, this was the boy his stand-in fairy godmother had meant, for what other sort of person would be sitting alone in the darkened back hallways of the palace, when there was a ball going on out in the main thoroughfare.

So he tried a smile back, one that ached in that way that his smiles always had, and he said, "I don't know that I'd ever have occasion to dance again."

"It depends on your apprenticeship," the older boy said, his voice gentler, a bit, less commanding. That, along with the lingering traces of his sad smile, put Harry at ease in a way that very little did.

"I– My father, he was in the army, so I had thought to maybe join the guard? Or whoever else might take me," Harry explained. Perhaps, if he was lucky, this boy might have some ideas; he certainly seemed more knowledgeable than Harry about such matters. And, if he was the one his stand-in fairy godmother had mentioned...

"What are your qualifications?"

"Qualifications?"

"Do you know any swordcraft?"

Harry shook his head, his heart sinking.

"Ah." The older boy's faint smile vanished entirely, like he knew that wouldn't help Harry feel any better about how unsuited he was for life outside of his aunt and uncle's home. "Well, you must have some skills, surely. Music, or perhaps you're very well-read?"

Harry turned his attention to his too-fine shoes, feeling very much a fraud. "I can cook and clean. We don't– My family doesn't always have money for lots of servants, so I help where I can."

The other boy was quiet for long enough, Harry half expected he'd walked away, even though he hadn't heard his footsteps. Perhaps a thorough mocking was in store for him, or being dragged to a guard and kicked out in disgrace.

"Well," said the older boy at last, his voice just a little bit careful, in the same way as Harry might speak to a wounded animal, "there's always the baker? He often comes to such events as this looking for apprentices. I guess he trains his students well and quickly, then sends them off to better their trade with other bakers."

That...sounded pretty perfect, really. Harry didn't _love_ cooking, but he knew he was a fair hand at it – of all the things he'd ever got beat for, the taste of his food wasn't among them – and he could almost see himself doing that for the rest of his life. So he found the courage to look back up at the older boy and asked, "Could you point him out to me? Or just tell me what he might look like?" For getting lost and conversing with the other boy had surely taken up a great deal of his limited time, and he doubted the older boy wanted to continue following him around.

(Although, what if this _was_ the person his stand-in fairy godmother had spoken of? Harry hadn't the faintest how to show someone how to be good, nor how they were supposedly to find freedom and happiness together, not the way their conversation had gone so far. Oh, he wished his stand-in fairy godmother had given him more to go on than smiles that looked like they hurt.)

"How about I introduce you to him," the older boy interrupted, something hard and knowing in his voice.

"I-I wouldn't want to waste any more of your time. Surely you'd rather be out dancing–"

The older boy let out a laugh that hurt Harry's heart to hear. "Dancing with all the possible eligible maidens in the land?" And then he must have leant forward, for Harry was suddenly meeting his gaze, even though he'd been looking down. "If you're so worried about making me miss the dancing, you'll have to dance with me. Won't you?"

Harry swallowed with some difficulty, not sure if he was more terrified of the notion, or desperate for it; the older boy was so very handsome, just the sort Harry should like to sneak looks at, but for two boys to be caught dancing... "It's not seemly for two boys–"

The older boy pulled away. "Bugger respectability," he snapped, and Harry couldn't quite stop a disbelieving gasp. "I meant to dance back here, if you're so shy. But if you really would rather not–"

"No, no!" Harry said before he could stop himself, looking up and up with wide eyes. "I should very much– I mean, I wouldn't– I mean, I– Yes?"

The other boy was smiling again, and Harry thought he looked a little less sad than he had done before. And then he held out a hand to Harry, the same as Harry had seen Vernon do when he and Petunia had been teaching Dudley how to dance. "Well?" the boy said when Harry didn't immediately take his hand.

Harry swallowed down his nerves – his _lifetime_ of hiding, of behaving _just so_ – and reached out to place his hand in the other's. "I don't even know your name," he mumbled.

Surprise twisted the other boy's expression, and he seemed frozen for a long moment. "You don't?" he asked, his voice sounding a little distant.

Harry shook his head. Should he? Was the boy some son of a noble? Had–had Harry overstepped? Was he being too familiar with–?

"I'm Tom," the older boy said, and he was smiling again, wider and so much more beautiful than Harry had yet seen. "Just Tom. And what are you called, then?"

Harry froze for a moment himself, because he knew what he was called, certainly, but he should never wish to introduce himself as such, and _certainly_ not to someone as handsome as Tom. So he very carefully said, "My parents named me Harry," because that was the truth.

"Hello, Harry," Tom said, before catching Harry around the waist and swinging him around.

Harry couldn't quite hold back a surprised shout, but then he laughed, feeling so much lighter than he could remember ever having done before. Which may well have been because Tom moved him like he weighed nothing, just like Dudley had done a few too many times, but there was no malice in Tom's expression.

There was no music that Harry could hear, but Tom moved with a fluidity that spoke to many years of practise, not even a little thrown off by Harry's stumbling attempts to keep up. He eventually sorted out where his feet were supposed to be, and sorted out a sort of rhythm, if not the music itself, and started actually, maybe, dancing along with.

It was fun, more fun than Harry could ever remember having. And he was getting to have that fun with an absolutely gorgeous man, who hadn't said anything cruel about the fact that Harry did servant's work sometimes, or acted a little shy and not at all like a 'proper' young boy should act. Hadn't said anything cruel at _all_ , which wasn't _quite_ a first, but was pretty close.

As they slowed to a stop, Harry heard himself say, "Has anyone ever told you that you're gorgeous?" And then he bit his tongue, because _what the hell_?!

Tom's eyes had gone wide, and it looked a little like he was maybe blushing – it was hard to tell in the low light, even as pale as Tom's skin was. "I–" he started, then stopped, seeming almost like he was struggling for words the same way Harry always did.

Harry looked away. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he offered, making a concerted effort to speak loud enough that Tom could hear, because he knew he mumbled when he was ashamed.

"You didn't," Tom said, and the hand holding Harry's squeezed his. "It's just, well, no one has ever sounded quite so...honest, when they say such."

"Well, whyever not?" Harry couldn't stop himself from saying, looking back up at Tom with a frown. Because Tom _was_ gorgeous, and the gods alone knew that Dudley got his share of compliments, even though he didn't deserve half of them. (Okay, Harry was maybe a little biased about his cousin, but _still_.)

Before Harry could figure out anything else to say – or start regretting his ability to speak again – Tom leant in and kissed him.

Harry had never been kissed before, and nor should he have ever expected to be kissed by someone so utterly handsome and outside his reach as Tom was. But he was, and while his brain went on brief holiday, his body didn't, seemed plenty content to push up against Tom and enjoy every second of the impossible.

Tom _must_ be the person his stand-in fairy godmother had spoken of, Harry decided as Tom pulled away, for his smile had been sad, and, too, only someone who was truly desperate to escape their own circumstances would kiss Harry.

"You, you really shouldn't be k-kissing someone like me. I'm not–"

"You're not what?" Tom demanded, something hard in his voice, though the hands that were still holding Harry's own and pressed against his waist were gentle in a way that was painfully unfamiliar. "A woman? So what? Rich or powerful? Why should that even matter? _Noble_?"

"I'm a _slave_!" Harry shouted, and then clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified. Because he wasn't, not really. He was a member of the family. The son of a soldier, nephew of a merchant who was usually pretty well-to-do, save when he made some rare bad choices. He was only paying his way by doing the chores, by picking up the slack because no one else in the family would. But he wasn't _actually_ a servant. And _certainly_ not a slave!

...wasn't he?

"Harry," Tom whispered, and his voice was so very kind, just like Harry's stand-in fairy godmother – _Tom's_ fairy godmother, she'd said. And, just like with her, Harry began to cry.

Except, these tears were bitter, and so much more hopeless than the last. For Harry was finally admitting to himself something that he'd always known, but never been willing to accept: He wasn't even his family's servant, but their slave; a source of free labour who had no escape, for every single thing he owned, in truth, belonged to them. The hand-down clothing he wore, the too-cold storeroom he slept in, the leftover food he ate. The only thing that might have been his own, his father's pocket watch, had been taken from him without him ever knowing it had existed.

And, the moment he would try to leave, to apprentice himself to someone else, they would beat him until either his will broke, or he died; they would never let him go. Hadn't Vernon beat him near to that point before the ball? Hadn't Harry been ready to give up on his dreams before his stand-in fairy godmother had come?

"Harry," Tom whispered from where he'd knelt in front of Harry on the cold stone floor, his hands warm and so very gentle on either side of Harry's face. "Harry, please, I can free you. You can be free and you can join the army, just like your father, or you can become a baker, or you can do whatever you might wish. Please, _please_ don't cry."

Harry sniffled and wanted to wipe at his eyes, but he didn't want to knock Tom's hands away, so he just let his tears stain his cheeks and sniffled again, because snotty noses were probably the least attractive thing about crying, and he should very much not like to put Tom off any more than he already had. "Why are you being so nice?" he had to ask, because he didn't know a single person who would have offered to get him away from his relatives, never mind someone who he'd only just met. And danced with. And kissed. And then slumped to the ground and cried on.

"Because you–" Tom started before clearing his throat and shaking his head. "Because people aren't kind to me unless they want something. Most people are...are greedy and cruel inside, if not without; they only talk to you when they think they'll get something out of it."

"That's terrible," Harry whispered, because it _was_. He knew plenty of cruel people, certainly, and his uncle was as greedy as they came, but he knew kind people, too, like his mum and Remus.

"Yes," Tom said, and Harry thought he might know, now, at least a little about why Tom's smiles had been so sad. "But you're different."

"My mum–" Harry started, before stopping himself, because he was interrupting. Because he had never been allowed to speak of his mother. But then he swallowed down his fear and took comfort in the dark familiarity of the servants' halls, and said, "My mum, she died when I was very little. But I remember that she was always smiling, was always so very kind. And I– Her smile, her kindness, that's...that's something I wanted to keep alive." He swallowed down the reminder of old heartbreak and years of loneliness. "It's all I have left of her."

"I think," Tom whispered, "that that is a good reason to always be kind. To always have a smile."

"Even though it hurts," Harry whispered, and Tom flinched. Harry reached up, then, and pressed two fingers to Tom's bottom lip, wasn't certain if he was remembering the sad turn to his smiles, or the way his lips felt pressed against Harry's own. "What about you?"

Tom swallowed, the bob of his throat just visible past Harry's thin wrist. "Nothing so good," he whispered against Harry's fingers, and he couldn't quite stop a shiver he didn't understand the source of. "People trust smiles. They see what they want to see in a smile, be that a stupid child, or promises never given." And then he smiled, but it was as bitter as Harry's sobs had been.

They were, neither of them, Harry realised, free, nor happy. Just like his stand-in fairy godmother had said.

"Run away with me," he said.

Tom's eyes went wide. "Run away?" he whispered, just a little bit of wonder in his words.

Harry nodded, nearly upsetting Tom's hands on either side of his face. "Yes. We can leave tonight, get as far as we're able..."

But he couldn't go on, because Tom was shaking his head, his smile so very sad. "I can't leave. I'm as trapped as you are, but there's no easy price to free me."

But that...that wasn't at all what Harry's stand-in fairy godmother had said. She'd said they could find freedom and happiness together.

"Then," Harry decided, "you can free me, and I'll stay with you, until the day you _can_ run away." He might regret it – one of the reasons he'd opted for an apprenticeship, rather than just running away, is that would hopefully give him skills he could use on the road to pay his way – but he couldn't leave Tom. Not when he'd promised, not when Tom so very clearly needed a friend.

(Friend? Or something more? Harry couldn't think of that, not when it felt uncomfortably close to using Tom for his own happiness.)

Tom's thumb brushed over Harry's cheek, where his tears had left his skin feeling so very dry and stiff. "You don't even know who I am," he murmured.

Harry swallowed and looked down as much as he could, a little uncomfortable without the option to hide his embarrassment. "Yeah, well, you know who – _what_ – I am," he said, voice so very bitter. "You're still offering to help me. Why shouldn't I do the same. Unless– Would it be...? Am I being presumptuous? I wouldn't want to get in your way, or–"

Tom kissed him again, and Harry suspected he wouldn't be getting in Tom's way if he stayed with him. (Though they might both need to very quickly master the art of not standing too close in public.)

"You," Tom whispered, something a little like wonder in his voice, "are entirely too impossible to be real. Are you a fairy creature, perhaps?"

Harry smiled a bit disbelievingly. "No. I can't imagine why you might think so. Though," he added as it occurred to him that he should maybe explain some of how he'd managed to get to the ball, given his family's likely reaction should Tom actually find a way to take him from them, "I did, perhaps, get a miracle or two from a fairy godmother."

Tom blinked at him once, twice, and then he laughed. And he didn't sound even a little bit disbelieving, which Harry appreciated, because he wasn't sure he would have believed himself if he'd been Tom. Rather, his laugh was as gorgeous as he was, and Harry thought he might just be falling in love. Which had the potential to be a little bit problematic and might just end in heartbreak, so he should probably stop that.

"Fairy godparents," Tom said once he'd stopped laughing quite so loudly, "make many an appearance in the less well-respected history books. But, without them, many events make so much less sense." He brushed his thumb across Harry's cheek again, and his eyes were bright with a sort of warmth that Harry couldn't remember ever having turned on himself before. "It is said, that for a fairy godparent to come to you, you must have been very, very good."

"Yeah," Harry whispered, and then swallowed. "You haven't, though. Been very, very good. But your fairy godmother, she still wants something better for you."

"What?" Tom said, and he'd gone stiff all over.

Harry swallowed again, hoped so very desperately that he hadn't mistepped. "She– My, uhm, I guess my fairy godfather, I guess he got in trouble, or something, because the, because the fairy god–ah–parent who came, she said she was my stand-in fairy godmother. That I'd been, uhm, been very, very good. But she had, has? But she has a godchild – a godson, I guess – who I would maybe, probably run into? She said I'd know him because his – because _your_ – smiles are as, as painful, are sad, same as mine? And that I– That we could help each other. Could help each other find freedom, and happiness."

"Freedom?" Tom whispered, and the well of hope in his voice nearly broke Harry's heart.

"Yes."

Tom blinked twice in quick succession, and then a single tear rolled down his cheek. "I'm a bastard," he said, quiet and a little secretive, but something almost like fear in his eyes. "My father left my mother without marrying her, but I guess my grandfather wouldn't have allowed it, anyway. My mother died giving birth to me, and if my grandfather'd had the option, I think he would have had me killed." A quick flash of his too-bitter smile, edged in nerves. "But he couldn't, doesn't have enough heirs to off one of them."

Harry's breath caught, because he'd heard this story before. Only it hadn't sounded quite so _real_ then. "You're Prince Thomas," he whispered.

Tom looked away, like he was ashamed of who he was, or couldn't face Harry's reaction to the truth. "If my uncle marries and his wife has at least one child, son or daughter, my grandfather will have the sort of second heir he wants. I won't have to stay here any more. I can..."

"You can run away with me," Harry whispered.

Tom looked, for one terrible moment, like he might start crying. But then he nodded and whispered, "Yes," and Harry couldn't begin to imagine what sort of terrible reaction he'd been afraid of.

(That Harry would start demanding favours, perhaps, or that he shouldn't wish to have anything to do with a prince who was both a bastard and had no true claim to the throne. As if _any_ of that would have mattered to Harry.)

Tom cleared his throat, then pulled back to stand, holding down a hand to help Harry up, even though it really should have gone the other way.

(Harry didn't expect this was the moment to start caring about social niceties, not after he'd cried on the prince and promised to run away with him once he no longer had a claim to the throne.)

"I believe, in the histories, that you only have until midnight until the magic wears off?" Tom said, even as he refused to let go of Harry's hand.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, reaching down and pulling out his pocket watch to check the time.

Before he could click open the watch face, however, Tom grabbed his wrist. "Is that yours?" he demanded in a voice that was a little cold and a lot demanding.

"I– yes? It was my father's," Harry explained, startled.

Tom let out a strangled sort of laugh. "Your father was James Potter?"

Harry nodded, because while he'd only heard his father's name a couple of times, he'd never let himself forget it, because that was the only thing he'd ever had of him. Not that having a potter for a father was really any more interesting than having a merchant for an uncle.

Tom closed his eyes and took a slow, careful breath. The same sort that Harry might have taken when he came across one of the massive messes Dudley liked to leave for him. "Who–" his face twisted, like he was saying something so utterly vile "–owns you?"

Harry shuddered, hating that such a word would relate to him, even though it had for so very long, it shouldn't have hurt him any more than people calling him 'Sootlin' did. "My uncle and aunt, Vernon and Petunia."

"Their last name, please," Tom requested with what Harry was beginning to suspect was an unusual amount of patience.

"Dursley. He's a merchant."

Tom took another slow, careful breath, then opened his eyes and offered Harry a strained smile. "You're going to watch them hang."

Harry flinched. " _What_?" he demanded, because why should they hang for–for–

Okay, so maybe slavery wasn't actually _legal_ under King Marvolo's rule, but it wasn't like Harry had ever been _called_ a slave; he was related by blood, which, well, there had to be some wiggle room there, right? And even if slavery wasn't legal, he didn't know of any laws explicitly _banning_ it. (Not that he was particularly well versed in the king's law. But surely he'd have heard of other hangings if it was such a big deal.)

"Harry," Tom said, his voice so very gentle, "you're a _noble_."

"I'm not," Harry insisted. "My-my mum was common, and my father was a, a potter. And a soldier. He-he died in the war."

"Yes," Tom said, his voice still so gentle, even as his hands were firm on Harry's shoulders, like he thought he might need steadying. "He died during the war, but he's also the reason we won it; he's the one who landed the final blow on the Earl of Gryffindor. My grandfather granted his wife, your mother, Albus Dumbledore's estates in recognition of his sacrifice; they, and his title, belong to _you_."

"What?" Harry whispered, and might very well have ended up on the floor again, likely in a graceless sprawl, if not for Tom's firm grip on his shoulder's. "But I'm– I can't be–"

"But you are," Tom insisted.

Panic swept through him, then, wiping away the disbelief. "I don't know how to be a, a noble. Or an earl. Or– Or _anything_. I'm a s– I'm _just Harry_!"

"Harry, Harry, please don't start crying again," Tom pleaded, so very earnest, and Harry choked out a laugh that sounded a little hysterical. "It'll be okay. We're going to run away together, remember? I can teach you how to be an earl, how to manage everything. Okay?"

Harry sucked in a breath that choked him and made him cough. And there were tears in his eyes and his stomach was churning something awful, but he forced himself to breathe, to blink back the tears that wanted to fall.

Because Tom could help him. He could show Harry how to carry his father's legacy, and Harry could, in turn, give him a place to run away to. They could be each other's freedom.

Harry still didn't quite feel calm or settled, not really, but he felt like he could maybe breathe again without either bursting into tears or falling utterly to pieces. "Wh–why hanging?" he had to ask.

"Because they lied to and enslaved a noble. It doesn't matter if your father was born common, or even if you were; you had a title when you came to live with them, and they should have known that. That they misused you is on their own heads, and a hanging is the least that they deserve. And," Tom added before Harry could do more than open his mouth, though he wasn't completely certain what protest he'd intended to make, "it's the absolute least the rest of the nobility will demand, as soon as they find out."

Well, Harry didn't really have an excuse for that; he'd heard plenty of stories about how bloodthirsty the nobility could be when they felt as though they'd been wronged.

Really, Vernon beating him to keep him away from the ball was beginning to make a lot more sense; of course his relatives wouldn't want it to get out that they'd been treating a noble worse than their servants.

"I don't know how to be a noble," Harry said, because he felt a bit like it was that, or he start crying. And Tom clearly was not a fan of crying. Anyway, Harry suspected that nobles weren't supposed to cry.

That thought made him giggle, just a little, because it was just _ridiculous_. Nobles were still human, right? In what way did suddenly having a title mean he couldn't cry? He'd had a title before, for all he hadn't known it, and he'd cried just fine.

"Shh," Tom whispered, pressing his forehead against Harry's and squeezing his shoulders. "I'm going to help you, remember?"

"Yeah," Harry whispered back, and closed his eyes and forced himself to just _breathe_. The same way he'd got through so many chores when he was sore or on the verge of tears because everything was just _too much_ , he now turned to pushing back the revelations of the night and the stresses of the future. He would take things one day at a time, same as always.

And he...he wouldn't be alone. For the first time in what felt very much like forever, he had someone who would help him through. Who he didn't have to worry about his uncle dismissing.

The distant toll of a bell broke the silence, and Harry flinched, then snapped open his pocket watch to check the time. Eleven thirty.

"Your watch is slow," Tom said, his voice just a little too quiet and calm, and Harry saw that he'd pulled out a pocket watch of his own. One which had both its hands pointing straight up.

Midnight.

"Oh no," Harry whispered, and clung tight to his pocket watch as he stared down at his clothing, watching as sparkles lit along the fine fabric, fading it away to the oversized, worn clothing he'd been wearing when his stand-in fairy godmother found him lying before the hearth.

It didn't take nearly long enough for his fine clothing to melt back into the reality, a flimsy piece of fabric falling from his head to rest just in front of his ratty old shoes, and Harry couldn't look up at Tom, couldn't bear to see his expression at the show of how poorly his own flesh and blood had treated him.

And then, sharp and sudden as the moment they'd been inflicted, the wounds on his back – part of the same miracle, and clearly beholden to the same time limits – returned. Harry cried out, his legs folding under him at the rush of pain. And, had Tom not caught him, he'd probably have hurt himself further when he crumpled on the stone floor.

"You're bleeding," Tom said, sounding a little like he couldn't believe it.

Harry – who was struggling to breathe through the pain, to find the mental fortitude that let him do any manner of chores whilst suffering his uncle's punishments – simply nodded.

"I'll have them _quartered_ ," Tom snarled, and it was the absolute _rage_ in his voice, more than his words, that caught Harry's attention.

"Tom," he gasped out, tightening his grip with the hand that was already clinging tight to Tom's arm. "Y-you c-can't."

"I am prince, yet, and I'll do as I _please_ ," Tom returned, so much rage in his voice. But his hands holding Harry up were gentle, and careful of his back. "First, the doctor."

Harry couldn't quite argue that, though he should quite like to perhaps sleep for a week, as well. Not that he ever got to, not with all of his chores.

His feet quite suddenly left the ground, and he opened his mouth to shout, but a gentle, familiar voice said, "Shh, Harry. I've got you."

Tom, he recognised, though he couldn't quite remember why Tom was _safe_ , and he closed his eyes and let his mind drift.

-0-

Prince Thomas Gaunt was angrier than he could remember ever being. He hadn't even been this angry when his no good, wretched excuse for a father had come begging favours. As if the man had had _any_ right to Tom and what little power he held in his grandfather's court. It had been just about enough power to see his father hanged, and the decision had won him just a little bit more favour with his grandfather, which hadn't been his intention, but he'd been all too happy to accept, all the same.

Now, almost ten years after that fateful choice, he again strode into the throne room with rage simmering under his skin. This time, unlike the last, there were hundreds of guests filling the room, many of them dancing around the floor, while an orchestra played from one of the half-hidden balconies peeking in from the floor above. Tom should have been on that floor, smiling whilst he danced with faceless woman after faceless woman, each one looking only to claim his title and bear an heir that might, one day, inherit his grandfather's throne. (Never mind that, should his uncle marry and bear a child of his own, Tom and whatever family he might suffer would lose all claim to the throne. By Morfin's will, should he survive Marvolo.)

Marvolo's glare, as ever, was a hard one to bear. But Tom had suffered it plenty over the course of his eighteen years, and he had his rage to give him strength.

His rage, and the blood coating his hand.

"Where have you been?" Marvolo demanded as Tom reached him. And then, clearly catching sight of the blood on Tom's hand, his hard gaze softened, just the slightest; the only show of love Tom could ever expect from his cold-hearted grandfather. "Whose is this?"

"Harry Potter, the Earl of Gyffindor's," Tom said, keeping his voice low, and was rewarded with the slightest widening of his grandfather's eyes. "His guardians have been using him as a slave and beating him."

And, oh, the rage in Marvolo's eyes could have rivalled Tom's own; Harry couldn't have begun to comprehend exactly how much James Potter and his sacrifice had meant to the kingdom as a whole, and to Marvolo personally. Even Tom only knew the coldest of facts: Albus Dumbledore, the Earl of Gryffindor, had headed a coup meant to overthrow the Gaunt family, already weakened by Merope's disappearance. He had managed to assassinate Tom's grandmother, Mireille, and nearly killed Morfin, save for the timely intervention of the royal guard. Marvolo, grieving and nearly having lost everything, declared war on Dumbledore, a war which lasted nearly five years and devastated over half the kingdom.

James Potter's sacrifice had not only avenged Mireille's death, but he'd ended the long, terrible war before it could take any more lives or ruin the kingdom beyond all recovery. Gifting James' widow and child with the title and lands of the traitor he'd given his life to kill had seemed only fitting, and something Marvolo had done without hesitation. (That no other member of the nobility had argued the passing the the title, despite how closely they usually guarded such, spoke to how devastated the rest of the kingdom had been by the war, and how utterly grateful they were for his sacrifice.)

In truth, Tom hadn't ever given any further thought to Countess Potter and her young son, having assumed the child would be brought up as any noble, and their first meeting would be either full of clever sniping about his status as a bastard, or else full of far more scraping and bowing and looking about for favours than any sane person should be expected to stand.

Meeting Harry in the servant halls, being utterly enchanted by his quiet mannerisms and the lack of any hostility or attempts to gain favour, and then discovering that there was, in fact, one person in the whole of the country who _didn't_ know him on sight, had been...mind-boggling. Never, in the whole of his life, had he ever been seen as _just Tom_. And to have that, as well as to be treated with the respect and kindness he'd never truly received because of his father? Harry could have asked _anything_ of him, and Tom likely would have granted it.

Had Harry not been a member of the nobility, Tom still would have done his damnedest to see his horrid relatives punished, because there was such a good, pure heart behind those lonely eyes, and Tom may have been cruel at times, but even he would never have wished Harry's fate on a child. On his relatives, perhaps, and some certain other people Tom might think of in his darkest moments, but never on someone too young to have made their own poor choices. That Harry had wished only for his own freedom, instead of the punishment of those who had misused him, spoke volumes about him as a person, as if Tom had needed any further proof that Harry was far too good for him.

Harry being a noble, especially a noble in his grandfather's limited good graces, made punishing his horrid relatives so much easier; whether Harry would appreciate it or not, his aunt and uncle would feel the wrath of their king. And Tom would stand back and _delight_ in their agony, though he doubted it would ever truly make up for the way Harry had sobbed when he'd called himself a _slave_. Nor would it make up for the wounds on Harry's back, which the palace doctor had almost looked worried to see, and the scarring from old wounds barely visible beneath the newer ones.

"Are they here, those relatives?" Marvolo hissed, such violence in his voice.

While Tom had never got confirmation one way or the other, he doubted Harry would have been able to leave – fairy godparents or no – if his relatives hadn't gone ahead to the ball themselves. So he nodded and said, "Vernon and Petunia Dursley."

Marvolo may have been furious, but he was no fool. And, just as Tom had resisted the urge to announce the reason for his arrival to the entire gathering, his grandfather sent his people to collect the Dursleys in as unobtrusive a manner as possible.

The human scum were brought to Marvolo's personal office, where Tom had suffered any number of dressing downs, as well as the few words of praise his grandfather had been willing to spare for a bastard. Tom, himself, was standing just behind his grandfather's chair, his hands freshly washed of Harry's blood, while his grandfather was settled comfortably in the chair, the dented pocket watch with the Gryffindor crest on the desk in front of him.

"Your Majesty," the Dursleys said, both bowing or curtseying a little too low, though it wasn't like they were really expected to know the different levels of prostration before their monarch.

Neither, unsurprisingly, acknowledged Tom, though he was due, at the least, a murmured 'Your Grace'; he might be a bastard, but he was still of royal blood and held a title.

"Do you know what this is?" Marvolo demanded, picking up the chain of the pocket watch and holding it up so the watch swung just over the top of the desk.

Vernon turned an interesting sort of purplish puce shade, while Petunia went nearly as white as her husband's shirt. "I, I'm afraid I don't, Your Majesty," Vernon said, so very obviously a lie.

"Indeed? And yet, the young man carrying it claims you two as his relatives."

"Young man?" Petunia tried, clearly thinking fast. "The only young man in our care is our son, Dudley."

"And should the young man in question, who is _not_ your son, point you out in a crowd?"

"H-he'd be lying, Y-Your Majesty?" Petunia said, sounding like she wasn't completely certain that was the correct answer.

"Take care how you refer to the Earl of Gryffindor, Mrs Dursley," Marvolo warned, his voice low and cold.

Tom forced back a vicious grin; it wasn't often he got to observe his grandfather's fury from the sidelines, and this was one event he was quite glad to be watching.

"And, moreover, take care that you do not lie to _me_."

Petunia looked down and away, her mannerisms distressingly like Harry's, and Tom clenched his fists against the urge to stride across the office and beat on her like some common thug, until she stopped reminding him of the boy whose blood had been on his hands far too recently.

Vernon was clearly not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, for he snarled, "That ungrateful little wretch is no _earl_. He's a strain on our resources and a _thief_. We took him in out of the goodness of our hearts–"

"There is no goodness in your heart, Dursley," Marvolo interrupted, and Tom couldn't say if it was because his grandfather was sick of listening to the man, or he'd realised that Tom was about to lose his temper. "Take them down to the dungeon," he ordered the guards who had brought the Dursleys.

"Your Majesty, _please_!" Petunia cried.

Marvolo stood, then, and the guards stopped dragging Vernon and Petunia from the room. When he spoke, there was naught but ice in the king's voice, and Tom couldn't quite hold back a shiver: "James Potter gave his life for the rights and freedom of every person in this kingdom. To treat his son as you have is beyond criminal. You had best hope there is kindness left in him, for it is he who will decide your fates. Take them away."

The whimpering and pleading of the Dursleys followed them out the door and down the hallway, until they were far enough away that the stones of the palace no longer echoed their voices back into the office.

Marvolo sat with a heavy sigh.

Tom swallowed, then stepped around his grandfather's desk, refusing to flinch when his angry eyes landed on him. "Harry– Earl Potter isn't going to want to be harsh, Your Majesty. He'll want to let them go free."

Marvolo's mouth thinned into a hard line. "They will never again taste freedom, not if even half of what you've told me is the truth."

Tom refused to look away. "I know better than to lie, Your Majesty."

"Yes, I dare say you've learnt that lesson already." Marvolo leant back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "Now, Thomas, where have you been for the past three hours? Surely you have not spent the entirety of the night conversing with a bleeding boy dressed in rags."

Tom knew better than to mention fairy godparents to his grandfather – Marvolo may have been willing to keep such books among the history tomes of his library, but he hadn't believed them since his own childhood – so he readied himself for punishment and offered up the real reason he'd hidden in the servant's halls: "I see no reason to find some greedy woman to marry, when anyone with sense knows I'll never sit the throne."

Marvolo stared at him, gaze hard and unbending, until Tom had to look away. "You will dance with at least five of those 'greedy' women, or you'll spend the night in the dungeons."

Knowing his grandfather, he'd end up in the cell next to the Dursleys. Which would only be amusing until he ran out of ways to torture them with words. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said as he bowed exactly as low as was expected.

"Where is Earl Potter?"

Tom swallowed. "My rooms. They were the first place I thought of," he said, probably a little too quickly. In truth, it was as much a wish to stay as close to Harry as possible, as the certainty that there was a comfortable bed he could lay him on, that had led to him carrying Harry to his own rooms.

"I'll have a room made up for him," Marvolo decided.

"Your Majesty, please," Tom said, wasn't certain that he cared how close he was coming to begging, "with his wounds, wouldn't it be best to just leave him? I've a couch I can sleep on."

Marvolo's stare was piercing, and Tom tried not to shake under it; he'd never come quite so close to admitting to a weakness before. But, then, he'd never really _had_ a weakness; if he had to develop feelings for someone, at least it was one of the few people his grandfather would never dare to punish just to hurt him. Marvolo might attempt to turn Harry against him, but Tom very much doubted such would stick; his kindness surviving ten years under the cruel thumbs of the Dursleys spoke well to the strength of his will.

"Until the doctor takes him off bedrest, he may remain in your rooms," Marvolo agreed. "But you will let him _rest_ , Thomas."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Tom agreed, and bowed again before turning and leaving the office.

He grimaced a bit as he headed back towards the ball; he truly had no interest in dancing with women enough to please his grandfather, but he knew better than to disobey.

Besides, he had the memory of his dance with Harry to get him through it, and the promise of many more yet to come.

-0-

Morfin did indeed find a woman to marry during the ball, and while Marvolo didn't quite approve – she was a member of the middle class, as Tom's father had been, and a widow, besides – he allowed it, likely as aware as Tom and Morfin that he didn't have a great number of options left, if he wanted a second legitimate heir.

Their marriage was a bit of a rushed affair, but Tom had never seen his uncle look so happy, and his new wife had a kind enough smile that Tom, for once, didn't feel like an interloper in his own home. (Though, in truth, much of that could have been due to Harry.) Their first child, a daughter, would be born almost nine months exactly after the wedding, and their second child, a son, would follow the year after, leaving Marvolo with plenty of legitimate heirs.

In the case of the Dursleys, Harry did eventually settle on hanging, though Tom did his best to talk him into something more painful. Harry refused to attend the execution, and Tom politely never attempted to describe it for him after the fact.

Dudley, Harry's useless lump of a cousin, inherited his father's businesses and nearly ran them to the ground over the course of the first year. His wife, a woman he'd met with at the ball, was quite a bit more clever than him – which wasn't saying much – and managed to keep him from ruining them completely. She also managed to arrange a meeting between Harry and Dudley, which ended almost as soon as it started, when Dudley greeted Harry as 'Sootlin', and Harry responded by punching him in the face.

(Their second meeting, almost four years later, and again arranged by Dudley's wife, though with the cover of Harry getting the chance to meet their children, went much better. Though Harry and Dudley would never be friends, they were eventually able to put their terrible past behind them enough to be amenable acquaintances.)

As for Harry and Tom? They did indeed retire to the estate that was Harry's right, as soon as Tom's first cousin was born. Tom did his best to condense a lifetime of learning social graces and the rules and rights of the nobility into a few years, and while some of it stuck, Harry would always be one of the oddest of the kingdom's nobles, and Tom would always find him working in the kitchen or cleaning the manor house with the servants. Especially a man named Remus, who Tom eventually got the full story of their acquaintance out of via a little more bribing than he should like to admit to, and came to be nearly as fond of as Harry was.

Neither Harry nor Tom would ever marry, and it was one of the worst kept secrets in the kingdom that the Earl of Gryffindor and the Bastard Prince shared a bed. Not that either of them were given to care what the rest of the kingdom thought, not once they'd gained the freedom and happiness they'd suffered and hoped so very long for.

And they, at least, lived happily ever after.

.


End file.
